


Wooden Towers

by LadyProto



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Backstory, Banter, Gen, Humor, Nicknames, Origin Story, Pre-Canon, Smoking, papa cor, two men and an MT
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-10-22 21:04:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10705059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyProto/pseuds/LadyProto
Summary: “Hey, Cor?”“Yeah, Dave?”“Your weapon of mass destruction needs diaper change.”((The acquisition and keeping of a small MT child))





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Shows younger Cor that's somewhere between the hot-headed kid that's mentioned in the Episode Gladiolus and the stern man we see in the main game. i.e - somewhere between a dork and war-marshal. Answers my questions of “why is Cor so friendly with the hunters?” And “why is Cor so familiar with Prompto?” Ooooo mysterious backstory that's in no way validated or invalidated by canon!

_  
We built a tower to freedom with rotten creek wood. We shouldn't have been surprised when it could only hold one._

The the only way to describe the area outside of the Crown City is in terms of what it lacked. In Cor’s 24 years of memory, the rivers had never been anything other than viscous with the brown stench of muddy runoff from the old mining operation. If there had been paint on these dry-rotted Coal Camp houses, he couldn't remember that either. Ever since the Balouve Mine company had began to bleed dry the resources a couple generations ago, the earth had struggled to bear life other than the short scrubby grass and basic root vegetables. This little world of rotten wood and whispered secrets had never changed, but after years in the city Cor had forgotten just how stark the nothingness of the wasteland could be. 

Cor inhaled deeply, letting memories rise to the surface, before quickly exhaling them to die in the night air. Just to stand amid the rotting remains of the old town was enough to make him feel like a ghost. He was something from another realm, forced by unfinished business to return to his personal hell of dust and guilt. The oppressive decay still served him with a bitter-sweet wonder as he traced a path well known to his tired feet. Just barely inside the glowy radius of the searchlights that were used to keep the daemons at bay slumped Hunter’s shack. He hated that it looked like home. 

Cor didn't get a chance to rap on the door before it swung open, its rusty hinges giving a high-pitched whine in response. “Well, well, well, if it ain't the _**Marshal.”**_ The door yawned open, and Dave came into view. Just like the scraggly wasteland around them, Dave hadn't changed either. He was a little bigger, a little thicker, and a few more tattoos, but that fire in his eyes, and that spitting comment -- he was the same Dave.

Cor huffed. “Who else would it be? I told you I was coming.” Cor didn't even get the words out before Dave had already turned his back as if he was denying a petulant child’s sass. Dave retreated into the one room shack, leaving Cor gritting his teeth as he followed Dave’s form into the derelict building. 

The interior was as barren as the exterior, if not more so. The softened wood creaked from the weight of Dave’s footfalls as he moved to seat himself in an old, folding metal chair -- the kind that would have been seen in school auditoriums had the schools in the area not had their fundings cut years ago. The desk -- or was it a table? -- was equally as rickety. It was nothing more than a piece of scrap wood on two filing cabinets, and it presented no real use besides holding half empty whiskey bottle and a haphazardly tossed gun. “So the prodigal son returns, eh? Getting bored inside the City?” Dave hoisted his feet up to recline on his makeshift “desk” as he spoke.

Cor held himself rigid despite the provocation. He only let his agitation show through hard breaths through his nostrils. The vile odour of damp and rot curled into the back of his throat as he did so. He had had the luxury of forgetting that scent in the Crown City. “I wouldn't normally do this, Dave. Your group has the tendency to operate outside the law.” 

“Accusations ain't the way to be startin’ partnerships, _**Marshal”**_ Dave spit the title like a curse, all venom and condescension dripping from his wolffish lips.

Cor crossed his arms, defiantly standing straighter to look down at the seated man. The wasteland cultivated only two kinds of men -- prickly, troublesome, and resilient like the weeds in the cracks of the sidewalk, or the broad, jagged rocks formed from the heat and pressure of living off the earth. Dave was the latter. He was the shorter of the two men, probably just barely missing the height requirement of the Insomnia army by Cor’s estimation. Where Cor was poised and lean, Dave was a mountain of muscle forged from necessity. Assuming the last ten years hadn't changed the man, Cor would have be lucky to have him at his side. He wondered if Dave could still outrun that angry junkyard dog. He wondered if that dog was still alive. “I...We have a problem. A big problem. I need someone who’s willing to bend a few rules with me.”

The two locked eyes in mutual understanding. “You need a hunter.” Dave corrected, satisfaction causing his lips to curl. “The all mighty Marshal’s moved from puttin’ hunters in jail to hirin’ them instead.”

From where Dave sat at his desk, Cor felt like a child being lectured by a principal. The same sharp tongue and exasperation that had keep him in constant trouble years ago began to surface. “Yes, _**David,**_ I need a hunter.” Cor’s tone was mocking but his words were true. Insomnia city boys wouldn't step one foot outside the safety of the walls. The war torn fields outside the safety of the Crown City belonged to a different breed. In a word, they were Hunters -rough and tumble kids with hell to raise and brass to prove. Hunters had formed their loosely organized civilian groups after corporations and politicians had all but abandoned the land. Their methods to obtaining peace and banishing daemons had always been questionable, but the results were undeniable. As one of two grandsons from some old-world family that had clawed life out of the top soil for generations, Dave sat at the top of this loose hierarchy of vigilante justice. “Don't stroke your own ego. I'm here because this is a special case. With the recent arrival of the Crown Prince --”

“The kid’s two, Corey. There ain't nothing recent about that.”

“ _ **Don't**_ call me that, for fucks sake.” Cor closed his eyes, gritting teeth at the comment as well his own sudden vulgarity. As he fought down darkened memories of rotting wooden towers and children’s ill-fated daydreams, he could hear Dave snickering. Dave was riling him up on purpose and Cor didn't have the time nor the patience for mind games. He had never been one to back down from provocation, but he was the Marshal now, not that punk kid swinging wildly in scrappy fistfights. He couldn't go around breaking noses because someone called him a name. “If you'd let me finish-- actually, no. Forget you ever saw me. I’m leaving. I’ll figure something out.” He stalked to the exit, pushing on the soft wooden door until the hinges screamed.

Before he could fully exit he heard one small taunt come from behind him. “Must be a real kick in the ass, to be the one stuck with nowhere to go huh, Corey?”

Cor stopped with his hand on the sagging door frame, letting the light from the garish searchlights illuminate the interior. The wind carried in another layer of dust making their world look grainy like black and white films, but this was a scene that had already played too many times in his own head. Cor’s insides shriveled from the toxicity of his memories. Guilt. Cor leaned away from his exit path, but didn't return to the room. He imagined the people of the crown city turning their backs as their Marshal allowed himself to be manipulated by emotion. “Dammit Dave. What the hell do you want from me?” 

“...For you to have a smoke with me like old times.”

The utter sincerity in his voice made Cor turn back to the where Dave still sat at the table. Without the anger and pretense of business, it did look like old times. Suddenly, his mouth was once again gritty with sand and coal dust from playing too close to the mine shafts. He could hear his momma humming gospel songs in the kitchen of their old camp house as his dad picked through the lowliest of “help wanted” ads. Instead of men separated by the cruelty of fate, Dave and Cor were two thirteen year old spitfires made up of grimy bandaids, swollen lips and loose teeth. With their bruised and blooded knuckles they held onto the hope that they would use the military as their ticket inside the Crown City walls. But fortune had never been kind to daydreamers, and military men had no qualms pitting children against each other. One open rank, one kid holding on to crownguard fatigues too big for his scrawny body, and the other kid left to rot in the wasteland. It could just have easily been Cor left behind In Leide, if only things had gone a little differently that one fateful day. Cor wonders if it would have been easier for him the fates had been reversed, At least then they'd never have to doubt his place on the world. “I haven't smoked since I was a kid.”

“You're still a kid.” Dave kept his gaze down as he reached around in one of the filing cabinets, but Cor could still see the start of a smile. With satisfied grunt, Dave pulled produced a crushed foil pack of cigarettes and a Hammerhead gas-station lighter. The cigarettes had not been opened and the lighter’s wheel still stuck with newness. Guilty suspicion gnawed at Cor’s chest. Dave had bought the items solely for the off chance they would have the opportunity for this moment of nostalgia.

“I'm 24.” Cor finally shut the door behind him. He sat down in another plastic chair that wobbled on uneven legs. He took the offered cigarette between his lips as Dave flicked the lighter. “and I'm only six months younger than you.” He mumbled around the taste of nicotine.

“Six months closer to being a kid then.”

Cor inhaled slowly, his system responding to the smoke. Warm, poisoned relaxation wrapped around his lungs. The smoke dissipated, curling into a hazy cloud that spiraled in the stagnant air. “Happy now?” He's not sure if he's asking himself or Dave. 

“Yeah, reckon so. Now what's bothering you, Corey?” 

Cor hesitated. He had no real reason to be so uptight. He was in the middle of nowhere with a man he'd known since childhood. Any secrets spoken would dissipated like daemons at the morning light. And yet he still held himself stiff and tense. The War had taught him self sufficiency and The War had been a strict teacher. He'd learned to hold his head high, how to put his chest forward and his heart back. He'd learned to keep his katana sharp, and make do when the gunpowder became scarce. He'd learned several ways of torture and then concocted several more. But asking for help? Showing humanity? This was something new. “This isn't something I should be speaking freely about. Just know I'm about to do something extremely ill advised and illegal.”

“Mhmm. Nothing new then? I've got an entire list of the stupid shit you've done. Even been alphabetized.” Dave leaned back. The burning end of the cigarette sparkled like his eyes. “Remember when you tried to keep a pet Sabretusk?”

“I was in third grade.” Cor snapped to defend himself “And that wasn't a matter of national security.”

“It was sixth grade, but go on.”

Cor frowned. It was so easy to forget himself here. This was too casual. The tobacco, the comradery, the silence -- it was so comforting in a way he didn't know he missed. He was losing control of the situation, but oddly, Dave didn't seem to be in control either. It seemed too much like two friends in bar somewhere. This type of teasing felt much more like affection rather than bullying. “The little Prince seems to have inherited his mother's frailty, and because of that we've been instructed to cease all military operations outside of homeland protection during this time. Except we have a problem. I have word of a new weapon from Nifelheim.” 

“There's always a new rumor about Nifelheim.” Dave waved dismissively. “Signs of the times our Granny says. War, rumors of war.”

“This rumor is based in fact.” Cor declared sharply. He recited the list of specs he'd memorized as proof. “It's been in development for 3 years at least, though mentions of its name go back for millennia. Based on the name alone we assume it to be some type of assassination specific droid. The informant said it had astonishing accuracy, night vision, long range and long time tracking capabilities, and can be made nearly inconspicuous when not in use.” Cor paused for dramatic emphasis and whispered through the smoke. “It's built for murder.”

“Ain't all weapons?” Dave quirked a bushy eyebrow.

“No, I mean, yes?” Cor stammered. 

Dave had already forgiven the slip-up. He leaned back crossing his burly arms across his chest as he watched the mostly burnt cigarette flicked into the night. When Dave furrowed his brow, Cor could see his own stern glare. “Interestin’. So what's it look like?”

“We don't exactly know…” Cor admitted. “The only other piece of information I have is its code name. They call it Quicksilver.”

 

 

 

.


	2. Chapter 2

“Ya know, we never did talk payment, Corey. ” Dave drawled as he lead the way down down  
the faded corridor to their hotel room

“That's because I'm shaving off fifty gil every time you call me that, I swear to god,” Cor readjusted several bags over his shoulders as Dave took his sweet time fiddling with the hotel cardkey. He refused to admit he was struggling with the weight. If Dave had followed the advice to pack light, then he wouldn't be having this problem. but no, dave had to carry his entire arsenal. 

“Well, maybe the payment I want is for you to use your birth name and not that god-awful Insomnian Latin.” Dave kept his cool despite Cor’s snippy tone.

“ You gave the receptionist a last name of _**“Auburnbrie.”**_ I don't even think that’s a word.” Cor grumbled. He could swear that Dave purposely slowed his movements with the keycard for spite. 

“It’s an alias.” Dave gestured as if he was seeing the name in lights. “Dave Auburnbrie. It’s got a certain ring to it. I sound _**fancy.”**_

“I’ll be sure to get one of the Prince’s crowns for you when we get back. Now open the fucking door.” 

The lock clicked, and the door opened. Without a verbal word to one another, Dave and Cor sat aside their bickering to take on the routine of paranoia. Stop for five whole minutes and listen. Close the curtains. Check the baseboards. Take stock of the two twin beds, leaky air conditioner, and painfully generic photographs hung on the faded wallpaper. It seemed as secure as they could hope for, considering they were on enemy territory. This was no "chocolate on the pillow" hotel but it was clean to the point of sterility -- no bugs of the organic nor microphone variety. Despite the technological advances of the Nifelheim capitol, it seemed that motels were the same everywhere. 

Satisfied with their security, Cor pointedly sat down the heavy duffle bag full of weaponry in front of Dave. “We’re going to get in and get out as soon as possible, no extra baggage.” Cor had never been much for firearms - the war had caused a shortage of gunpowder and besides there were connotations of guns being a “savage's” weapon thanks to their usage by the Nifs. “The informant has set up the rendezvous point at a busy cafe just around the corner. Like I said before, in and out and gone before sunrise. Dave, I want you on backup in case something goes wrong.”

Dave took the bag and plopped down on one of the hotel arm chairs. The stiff faux-leather crackled as he pulled out his trademark semi-automatic glock. “Mhmm. Gotcha covered.” He dug around in the duffle bag. Two more guns joined the first -- some kind of tiny silver revolvers that Cor didn’t quite recognize.“Who exactly are we waiting for?” 

“I've...never actually seen her. We've done all our communications by mail.” Cor admitted his rashness. He added more information to defend his actions. “She calls herself it's mother though, so she must be intimately involved in its manufacturing.” 

“So like an inventor or somethin’?” 

Cor frowned as a shotgun was added to the growing collection. He had to admit they had been easier to smuggle than his katana. “Your guess is as good as mine” 

“Naw, my guess is you shouldn't shouldn't be using the information of a woman who calls a machine gun her baby.” If Dave understood the irony of his comment, he made no indication. He made a show of loading the shells into his shotgun and flicking the barrel back into position. Dave grinned. “So, it's going to be like when we were kids. Little Corey comes home crying so Dave has to punch a kid out.”

Cor glared. Dave wasn’t wrong, but he didn't have to say it. “Just… stay down downstairs in the lobby. Don't make a move until I give the signal”

“What's the signal?”

Cor’s brain stalled at the question. He hadn't thought that far ahead. He had never been known for cool, calculated aloofness despite his desire to be. His current situation was evidence enough for that. He was rogue, disobeying a royal decree for a slim chance of a payout. He ran on adrenaline and bravado, not well thought out plans. “I'll probably mimic the scream of a terrified little girl.” He answered honestly.

Dave nodded, as if such a thing were par for the course. They didn’t need to need to speak a word to one another to understand the next few moves -- a skill they'd learned throughout the years of knowing one another. Dave took his position in the hotel lobby, gun hidden from sight in his waistband. Cor steps outside the building, and quickly falls in line with the rest of the afternoon crowd. He doesn’t have to give a backwards glance to know Dave has his back. 

The “cafe” ended up being just another chain in the massive cooperation of Kupo Koffee. It was less than two feet from one the busiest roads in the city. The trademark green straws and umbrellas were the only color in the grayness of the mass-produced atmosphere. Cor remembered when he considered that kind of place. Throngs of people milled in and out at all times. It was the perfect place to fly under the radar. Cor adored the irony of casually sipping on a double chocolate chip frappuccino while waiting for news of a weapon of mass destruction, though didn’t really know who he was waiting for. He really should have asked more details about the whole thing. 

Though apparently he didn’t need a codeword to identify the informant. She was terribly conspicuous, comically so. Her hair was covered by a large brimmed hat, and her features were obscured by round, reflective sunglasses. She carried a large tattered duffle bag awkwardly in front of her like it's the most precious thing in the world. “Are you… The Immortal?” she whispered nervously as she passed by Cor’s table. 

“I am. I didn't know my reputation preceded me.” Cor nods towards the chair opposite of him, indicating for her to sit. 

She doesn’t take the offer. Her eyes aren't’ visible behind the dark lens, but her head is tilted down towards her feet. She almost seems sad. “We all know you here.” words fall softly from her pink lips -- her only feature that’s not totally obscured. “That’s why I think you are the one I can trust with something so precious.”

“Excuse me?” Was she still talking about the weapon? Was it so volatile that it needed to be cradled like she had it? 

“I decided to do more than give you the information. The bag… I brought him to you.”

Cor had expected a scientist, weary from struggling with their own consciousness and carrying printouts of specs tucked under their arms. Instead he had small, waifish woman speaking cryptically as if her weapon had some type of consciousness. “The weapon?” He asked for clarification. 

“You have to swear to me.” Her bottom lip quivered. She adjusted the bag very carefully and held it in front of her like an offering. “Please, Immortal. Take my baby and go as far away from here as possible. Leave as fast as you can.”

So much for being stealthy. Cor internally screamed around a mouthful of frappuccino. 

Maybe this was just a crazy person. Maybe there wasn't any Nif super machine gun, and he was going to unwrap the duffle bag and find a dead chocobo or something. “The world thanks you for keeping a weapon out of volatile hands.” Either way, he accepted the bag graciously, and held it on his lap to mimic the woman’s careful movements. It was heavy, and strangely lumpy. He swore he felt it squirm. So, not a dead chocobo, but a live one. Awesome. Time to get back to Dave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really really bad at humor fics

**Author's Note:**

> Hoping this wasn't too OOC for me or the characters.  
> Depending on the response for this, I may continue writing their shenanigans after they procure the baby.
> 
> Don't worry I'll get back to my dark fics soon!


End file.
